


The Hawk's Spider

by mickey2k14



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Prompt Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 17:02:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11063301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickey2k14/pseuds/mickey2k14
Summary: Clint sees a lot of himself in the boy, Peter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Day 1: Write a scene that takes place in a coffee shop.**

-

-

What Clint's doing goes against every instinct he has.

Most importantly, the one of self-preservation because additional unneeded baggage can get you killed and a kid, one that's barely four years old and doesn't know how to control himself, quite firmly fits into that criteria. He doesn't know why he took him along when he left the scene, should've left him after he'd ransacked his father's study but the kid, so innocent and wide-eyed and curious; he stirs something in him.

Peter Parker, son of Richard and Mary Parker, is a newly made orphan after his parents were killed in a perfectly orchestrated plane crash.

It's a relief that he can say he had nothing to do with the crash because, of course, Clint is just a sniper, some monkey with a gun who can't be trusted with big operations because no shooter in the world has more than one brain cell. That's part of the reason he went MIA since, if he's going to work in the criminal underbelly, he's going to actually do something, not just kill and shoot when given instruction.

No, he's not some pawn, he's a player, too.

"Clint." Pete tugs on the end of his jacket. "I want a muffin."

"A muffin?"

"Aunt May always gets me a muffin if we go past Starbucks." He nods earnestly. "Please, I've been good!"

It's guilt that makes him say 'yes', cross the road and enter the coffee shop because he's reminded that he could've left him with his aunt and uncle when the news of his parents' deaths was broken to them but he took him away instead.

And, as much as he can lie to himself and say it was because he wanted to protect the kid from anyone after his parents (his former organisation among the numbers, may he add), it's because the kid looks so much like him, back when he himself lost both parents in a car accident. It was him and his older brother, Barney, against the world until Barney himself betrayed him.

Clint would never let that happen to Pete.

"I want a chocolate one!"

He humours him and he buys something else called a frappuccino that, to Pete's delight, is equal parts sugar and happiness as he tells the older man, insisting that he try it, too.

For the both of them, it's a quiet moment of peace as they rest their weary feet from the constant travel that's taken them from Queens, New York to London, England where they're blending in with the crowd as a weary father and son returning for the Christmas holidays. It's a blessing the number of people there are around but the cold that plagues them when they sleep in abandoned buildings isn't so appreciated.

Still, they haven't been caught by either the authorities or Clint's former employers so he'll take things as they come, like the sight of Pete, chocolate on his rosy cheeks, grinning up at him.

And it's things like that that reassure him he made the right decision, instincts be damned.

 

 

Written in 2012


	2. Part 2

**Day 2: Write a scene involving a simple item that triggers a memory.**

-

-

It's no surprise that they're on the road again because of another incident, which is what Clint has taken to calling the little situations in which Pete accidently reveals his superpowers, but he's still a little disappointed. They'd been in that city for a year and a month, a record for them, and he'd thought that maybe they were finally settling down. Things are never that easy, though.

"Are you mad?" The voice is quiet, timid.

He looks across at the boy. "I'm never mad at you."

"But you're angry." He points out, gesturing at the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn white.

"Not at you, never at you. I'm angry at them."

"But it's my fault!" he cries. "I should've controlled it."

He reaches out a hand, grounding the boy's emotions. "You're an eight year old, Pete. You're allowed to be scared of things and react accordingly."

He huffs, not letting himself off that easily. "I ruined things for us."

"I was getting sick of the place anyway. This offers us a new start. Tell you what, why don't we get a treat for your good work?"

It's impossible for him not to perk up at the mention of a treat and he leans forward excitedly. "What kind of treat?"

Clint's relieved since Pete can mull over things for days, weeks even, so a quick distraction is almost always necessary when they flee somewhere to start again anew, if being chased and shot at isn't a distraction enough. But that's only happened a few times and neither of them are too eager to relive those experiences. By luck, there's a sign advertising a fairground and one look at Pete tells him what he needs to know.

"What say you to an impromptu stop?"

"Yes!"

His kid, it feels right to call him that after nearly five years, laughs at the puppet shows, stuffs his face with sweets and cotton candy and, for a few hours, he's a normal child, not an orphan on the run with an ex-criminal.

"Clint, I want that toy!" He pointed to a giant dog hanging from the side of a archery game.

"The dog?"

"Please, you're good with a bow, and he's so soft and fluffy!"

He picks up the toy bow, staring at it like it's a stranger because this, this, represents a chapter of his life he'd thought he'd finished with.

He was fourteen when Barney and him ran away from the children's home to the circus. They'd been kids, rebellious and wanting to experience the good life so why they didn't stay in school is something he'll never be able to answer. Either way, they did the odd jobs, sweeping up after the circus animals, selling tickets and general packing up. It meant that, by the time the show was underway, they were out of jobs to do and free to watch.

Typically, cocky fourteen year old Clint had boasted that he could shoot arrows better than the current guy who, to be fair, was beyond shocking and missed half the time when he was just walking. As in, really, he might be able to shoot for the Olympics where you stood still but the circus was about entertaining and watching a man shoot a bulls eye thrice in a row wasn't the epitome of that.

"Go ahead, then, Barton, you can't do any worse than him."

And he doesn't.

He's brilliant at archery and they call him a natural showman, he's originally playing the villain in a few skits until the circus manager coins onto how much the audience love him and then he's on high wires, dodging blanks and a few real bullets and flipping and rolling and fighting in a way he'll one day learn isn't an accurate representative of real fights at all.

There's a notable difference in how he's treated, no longer the helper like Barney but a performer with a small caravan to himself, a costume and his own show. It's small but it's a change and he's got a foot on the ladder and he's determined not to slip. He works hard, practicing in every spare moment and he's rewarded for it, becoming the very star of the show in nearly no time at all: Hawkeye, the World's Greatest Marksman.

Until someone shoots back, hitting just where he's most vulnerable.

It's Swordsman, his mentor, who's embezzling money from the carnival. But that's not what he really cares about, not even the fact that he nearly died trying to turn the man in, no, it's the fact Barney betrays him.

Thinking back, he should've seen it. Barney was always boisterous and proud and the centre of attention and he'd wanted Swordsman to take him on instead of Clint. But he doesn't see it because, to him, Barney's the one who protects him and raises him and gets him in trouble just to take all the blame. It's them against the world.

Which is why it hurts so much.

And, as he picks up the toy bow, there's still some part of him hurting, there's still a part of him that's a teenager and watching as his brother walks away from him, ignoring his pitiful cries and the blood that trails into the muddy puddles. There's still a part of him that wishes his older brother is there.


	3. Part 3

**Day 3: Write a scene where your favourite song is playing in the background.**

-

-

It's home.

The house is a small two bedroom, probably council owned before the landlord bought it and started renting it out, and it's pretty plain looking, drab carpets and neutral walls but it's theirs and, after a full day of moving in, it's looking pretty fine. The two of them don't have many belongings and, certainly, they can't afford much luxury but there's a fluffy dog plush in the middle of the living room, positioned just before a flat pack table where Pete's playing on the laptop.

Clint's cooking, something he'd never had done before Pete, and he's making sure to include the vegetables, disguising them cleverly so that he can persuade the boy to eat. It's quite domestic, he thinks, that he's cooking and Pete's playing and it's surprising how much he enjoys this, even if he does miss the old thrills of his previous life.

"Pete, dinner in five."

He gets a noncommittal 'mm' for his trouble.

"I want the table set then, okay?"

"Okay." The boy comes into the kitchen, peering into a box they haven't yet unpacked to find the cutlery, picking out two forks and grabbing two napkins, too.

They've got a routine and it's familiar to sit down and eat.

"Did you hear about the news?" Pete asks, because he's the tech savvy one out of the two.

"Surprise me."

"They're bringing a fleet of Chinese pandas over to America as part of a breeding program. I thought it was cute, don't you love pandas, too?"

His eyes flick to the screen, making out the black and white fur and smiling a little. "They're very cute, do you think it'll work?"

"I don't know, the comments are all different but I hope they do. We should go to America one day, visit them and see if any of them act like Po, the kung fu panda!"

Clint laughs because, for all he doesn't act like it, Pete's still a kid and he has his moments where he manages to brighten the whole room. He finds it adorable, it's a dynamic he's still getting used to, but he loves it.

"Can I have the laptop for a moment?"

Pete gives it to him, careful not to get the trailing cables into the pasta sauce, and Clint scrolls through the newest stories, skimming most of them: football's campaign to stamp out racism, the typical IRA threats, the newest celebrity break ups. There's nothing important, not overly, but he's always looking out for mentions of his previous employers or the villains who blame him for their downfall but, most importantly, his kid's parents.

Even now, he doesn't quite know why they were killed, his search having revealed nothing, but it's serious since big guns were sent after him when he left and he was only a lowly sniper, nothing that warranted that much concern. No, he wants to know why Pete has above average strength, why he can climb walls without help, why he's some sort of mutation. He's careful, searching through a proxy since he has no doubt someone monitors the phrases 'genetic mutation' and 'Richard Parker' who worked for the CIA before he was killed but he's dismayed once more when nothing comes up.

"It's too quiet." Pete interjects, reminding him he's there. "If you're reading, can you put some music on?"

"You're right." he smiles because dinner time is family time and that always means noise.

He goes onto Youtube, clicking on the first video he sees which starts with a catchy pop tune which Pete grins at when he hears it.

"Do you know the band?"

"No." he admits. "But they sound good."

"I bet you'd sound better."

He lights up at that but he's eight now and he's started insisting that he be treated like an adult so he doesn't whirl around the living room and make a one man show of himself, much to Clint's amusement. Instead, he's elbows deep in bubbles and warm water as he washes up all of one saucepan, two plates and two forks. And, hey, if it makes the kid feel good, Clint's all up for it.

He tidies up after him, wiping them dry and moving the stool out of the way so he won't trip over it if he gets up for water and, after ensuring that Pete's brushed his teeth, he tucks him into bed. It's a roll mat, really, with a few blankets and the dog but it's the easiest for moving around and they stick to it. Clint sleeps on the same and somehow, the boy has it in his head that that's how all grown ups live. He should tell him sometime, really, he should but this is their messed up family and they do things their way.

The last thing to shut down is the laptop and, when his fingers hover over the keyboard, he can hear the tinny voice of the band's vocalist singing and he finally listens to the lyrics, finally hears them even though it's been on repeat all night long.

 

__

_Ima go 'cause I got no problem with saying goodbye_

_Is it wrong that I'm gonna be having the time of my life?_

_'Cause deep down I know I should cry, I should scream_

_And get down on my knees, I should say that I need you here._


	4. Part 4

**Day 4: Write a scene in a church.**

-

-

In the end, it's his father's drinking.

He expects it because when his father drinks, he becomes reckless, fun-loving and wholly unaware of his own mortality. He's not a bad man, he doesn't think that for a second, but he's not responsible and hardly the role model that any eight year old should look up to. Not that Clint was ever disillusioned enough to think that being anything like his dad would be a good thing. Still, he likes the man, a lot, and he'd rather he was alive than dead.

Maybe that's why Barney finds him at their graves again, plucking the plots clear of weeds and telling them both about his day. It's uneventful, going to school, coming back to the children's home and the same as any other day but he always finds something to talk about, even if it isn't necessarily important. He tells them they learnt about snails, the typical connotation with the French and jokes about snail racing.

"Clint!" Barney hisses, respectful enough not to yell in a graveyard. "What are you doing here?"

He thinks the answer's obvious. "I'm talking to mum and dad."

There's sympathy in his gaze. "You can't just leave the home, though. They don't like that, they prefer to know where everyone is."

He laughs at that. "They don't notice, there's too many kids for them to see that one's slipped away. I bet some of the workers don't even know my name."

"Maybe." Barney agrees, moving closer to his brother, and reaching a hand to his cheek. "Christ, you're cold! How long have you been here?"

"Not long." He glances at his watch, surprised at the time it shows. "Maybe a few hours, then."

"You always let the time fly by." Barney sits next to him, ripping up grass absentmindedly. "Do you really not notice it?"

He shrugs. "Here's better than the orphanage, don't you think? I don't want to stay there till I'm an adult, I'm already sick of it."

"Why don't we run away? When we're older, maybe after middle school, and we'll make a life for ourselves. Travel across every single state, yea?"

"Where are we going to get the money for that? We won't be able to work if we're not adults and I don't particularly want to get a record before I'm eighteen."

Barney's not the clever one in their partnership, that's Clint, but he still tries earnestly to think of some occupation that would take on two kids without too many questions. All of them are pretty bad professions.

Eventually, though, he latches on something. "Teenage runaways always join the circus and Carson's always passes through Iowa in November. We'll run away next year when you're fourteen. How does that sound?"

It sounds better than staying at a children's home where Beth wets the bed every night, Alexa's always crying and Todd tries to bully anyone who comes close to him. In fact, running away sounds perfect and rebellious and, as long as the two of them are going to be together, Clint's keen on anything. He adores his older brother, he knows he'll be safe with him.

"Do you think we'll have an act if we join? The Barton brothers maybe."

"Barney and Clint," he corrects, "because everyone knows the circus folk are on a first name basis with their customers, it's just a big, happy family."

And, really, there's nothing Clint wants more than that.


	5. Part 5

**Day 5: Write a scene that takes place on a farm.**

-

-

Clint thinks that he can read Pete pretty well.

So he knows something's wrong when he's quiet during breakfast and looking physically sick as he lets go of Clint's hand to join the other kids in the playground.

"Hey, are you feeling okay?" he bends down to his level, checking his temperature.

"I'm fine." He insists, offering up a weak smile as he bats away Clint's larger hand. "I just didn't sleep much."

"Do you want to skip school and go to the park?"

He laughs. "Miss has already seen me. I don't think I can just leave. Maybe you can pick me up at lunch and we'll play sick together?"

He gives a mock salute. "Yes, sir, twelve hundred on the dot."

It gets the reaction he wants and Pete giggles, the flush that spreads across his cheeks the one he likes seeing the most. He's not the best dad but he's not far from it, either, and he ruffles the boy's hair once before he sends him off with his lunch.

Still, Clint reads Pete like an open book and, in the past, that kind of behavior was a precursor to an incident so he calls in sick to work and his boss accepts it since, for the month he's been in the area, he's been an upstanding little worker ant. Tidying up the belongings they have doesn't take long and he's got everything they need in neat little boxes inside the car before it's eleven.

Which is lucky because the call comes at quarter past.

"Good afternoon, Smith residence, how can I help you?" he gets a little kick out of throwing someone off their game, especially since they're going to do the same to him.

The receptionist's flustered for all of two seconds before she catches herself. "Mr Smith, I'm calling about your child, Peter, he's been involved in a fight and we'd like you to collect him."

He's already in the car as he repeats, "A fight? Pete hates violence."

"Yes, well, that's not what we're seeing here. Get here as soon as you can, please." Her tone's curt and she hangs up promptly.

It's bad then, since, normally, he can charm strangers with just the warmth in his voice. The fact she ignored it means that Pete's done something awful enough for it to reflect onto him.

He doesn't like the possibilities running through his head.

The haste at which he gets to the school is actually quite amazing, especially considering he follows the speed limit and only runs through the red lights. Not that it matters, though, he's hardly going to be staying long enough for the council to prosecute him for traffic offences.

"Hey, little man." He's at Pete's side in an instant. "What happened?"

"They were bullying me. I got upset."

He runs a hand through Pete's hair, smoothing it out. "It's okay to be upset, Pete, you didn't do anything wrong."

The boy darts furtive glances either way, like the teachers aren't whispering and watching them in their peripheral vision. "I had an incident."

Clint knows. "No worries, eight year olds are allowed to crazy things, right? Want to tell me what happened?"

He tells him.

They cornered Pete in the boys' bathroom, and that makes Clint both understanding and angry. Pete's had enough brushes with violence that he knows being enclosed is bad. He was panicked and he doesn't realise that a few kids weren't quite the bad men he's faced before with their guns and their knives. Still, he doesn't blame him for it: tying them up is the clever thing to do and so what if they're too idiotic to get themselves free without injury?

It's not Pete's fault, it's never Pete's fault.

"It's okay. We'll give them a fake account of events, confusing enough to waste their time, and skip town, okay?"

"We don't have to," Pete says, "they didn't call the non-emergency number for the police. I know how that sounds now, they called someone else, mentioned the Finisher? He sounds like some sort of lame wrestler!"

It's a name he hasn't heard in years and he's glad for it because the Finisher, well, his name is synonymous with death and it was him who killed Pete's parents. Suddenly, it makes sense why no one's talking to them or going over how unruly his son is and, while he doesn't know quite how a middle school has connections like that, he knows they have to get out of there.

"Clint, what's wrong?"

"We have to leave. Now." The tone he uses leaves no argument.

It's telling when no one stops them, like they know the two of them can only run so far before they're caught. Somehow, not being pursued is always the worst part of moving around, because it's something he can feel creeping up at the back of his neck and he can't do anything about it. At least he knows how to deal with a firefight, he prefers that to waiting for the inevitable.

Pete buckles his seatbelt, straining in his car seat to see the road "Where are we going?"

"Oak farm, non-descript little place on the edge of town, there are documents we need there."

See, Clint's not stupid.

Yes, he was treated like a grunt but that didn't mean he wasn't noting down the location of safe houses or other information that was well above his pay grade and, quite frankly, he's been making sure that every place they move to has somewhere with a cache of weapons and money and passports. Oak farm is one example and he's glad for his preparation if he's going to be facing up against the infamous assassin.

In the end, it's a close thing.

Clint sees better from a distance and the thing with the Finisher is all hand to hand combat and, to be honest, he's on the losing side, younger and inexperience and wholly unprepared for combat. If he gets out of this, he promises himself he'll start going to the gym or something because, seriously, three kicks to the ribs shouldn't have him wheezing like a forty year old smoker.

"I heard great things about you, Hawkeye, I didn't think I'd be so disappointed."

He sneered. "That's some sad punching. You hit like a girl."

He's an archer and he knows how to aim true, even if he doesn't have a bow and arrow. Quite frankly, someone like the Finisher will never be insulted like that before so it throws him off his game for a second.

Which is long enough for Clint to roll and duck and reach for the gun kicked to the side. He brings it up, has it leveled and fires to hear the click of an empty chamber: something he really doesn't need now.

The Finisher's grin then will forever haunt his dreams.

He guesses he's lucky that he'll even live to dream again but, somehow, the webbing that shoots out to wrap around the other man's ankles doesn't feel like a victory at all. It feels like he's dragging a little kid into his battles and robbing him of his innocence so, no, the victory is tinged with defeat, too.

He sends Pete to the car, not wanting him to know what happens next and it's in no time at all that they're driving away from the farm with a stash of ill gotten money and blank passports. Because, once news reaches about the death, all of England won't be big enough to hide in.


	6. Part 6

**Day 6: Write a scene where you absolutely love the outfit one of the characters is wearing.**

-

-

Clothes make the man, they say, but Clint begs to differ in this case.

The man before him looks bland, wholly unassuming and perfectly at home in the role of a school teacher but Clint knows, at once, that he's different. He's dressed in a cashmere sweater, the collar of a shirt just peeking out, and wears cream slacks over polished black shoes. But that's not what first draws his attention, it's the bulge of the gun at his waistband. And, next, it's his eyes, sharp and calculating and changing the way Clint perceives him.

After that, it's pretty easy to notice that his clothes are expensively understated, he's standing as if he's spent time in the military, at ease but aware of his surroundings, and he's got an earpiece in, head tilted unconsciously as he listens.

"That's Mr Gregg." The principal says, seeing where his gaze's focused. "He'll likely be teaching your son if you choose our fine establishment."

"I see." he keeps his tone neutral. "How's security here?"

"There's only the best for our students. We have security cameras on the playground, field and all the entrances and exits as well as a security team in case we have trouble."

"Do you often have trouble?"

"We cater to the rich, there have been some attempted kidnappings but none have succeeded during my years here. I assure you that young Peter will be very happy if he's studying here."

The plan's not bad, if he has to admit it. They're tried state schools before and that hasn't worked so what's the harm in trying with private? With the money they have right now, it's not going to be a problem and maybe, finally, Pete might actually be happy and learn something for once. After all, don't most rich kids simper to each other?

Pete's all for it, they'd arrived in the states just a week ago and he's eager to see how it is on the other side of the pond, hardly remembering that this is where he came from originally: New York.

"Pete, do you like it here?"

"Yes!"

"Okay, you go play, I'll sort out the financial side."

Just as Clint knows where the hidden supply caches were, he's been moving money around that isn't his for years, eventually rendering them untraceable. After all, there's only so much that a twenty year old can get paid when he's got no CV or references and cuts his working hours short to spend time with his son. And, really, even the principal wouldn't be able to stop himself asking questions when he was presented with a duffel of crisp twenty pound notes. For one, it's English money and, two, those duffels scream ransom money like nobody's business.

It's better to go unnoticed and pass through the states without too many incidents.

They settle the cost of the first semester at the prestigious school, Clint acting like the sum of money isn't the biggest he's ever paid for something, and then he's back out into the playground, fingers anxiously itching to find his son and hug him. He hates them being separated.

Unsurprisingly, Pete's not with his peers but with Mr Gregg, a testament to how badly he does need some interaction with children his own age. "Hey, Clint, meet Mr Gregg!"

Clint hesitates because instinct is telling him the man's dangerous and he should get the two of them out of the school before he gets too far in but, hey, he's screwed over instinct before, hasn't he? "I'm Clint Barker, pleasure to meet you."

"Clark Gregg." He smiles and it's disarming, the type that draws him closer to him. "Your son was telling me about you, you're into history?"

He doesn't doubt Pete for a second but something about the man makes him feel like he can see right through him and the holes in their story are so clear in that moment that he wonders what the man's thinking. Why does his son call him Clint, for instance, why is there a momentary hesitation as Pete says 'P-Barker', something they're still working on, or why, if they're rich enough to afford this level of education, is he dressed so casually?

"I love it," he says instead, "but I fear I'd bore you with the details. Pete has a dentist's appointment now so, unfortunately, we have to leave. I'll catch you later."

Clark nods understandingly, adds to Pete to make sure he brushes his teeth and the then he lets them go. Somehow, the fact he didn't make some cryptic comment worries Clint all the more than if he had.


End file.
